Why We Keep Voting for Home Runs Instead of Wins

In the early 2000s, the Oakland Athletics did something that looked almost irrational to traditional baseball minds. Instead of chasing star players or dramatic home-run hitters, they focused on something far less exciting: getting on base. You might know this from Moneyball.  The insight was simple and deeply unglamorous. Over a long season, small advantages compound. Consistency matters. Flash does not equal winning.

Of course, that insight is useful far beyond baseball.

Humans are drawn to spectacle. We overvalue dramatic moments and undervalue cumulative processes, even when those processes are what actually determine outcomes. We want the heroic swing, the decisive victory, the clear turning point. But most real-world success—whether it is financial, institutional, or democratic—comes from quiet forms of discipline.

Psychology helps explain why this is so hard: research by Hal Hershfield shows that people often experience their future selves in the same regard as strangers. When asked to think about who they will be decades from now, many people respond with emotional distance rather than continuity. Brain imaging studies even suggest that thinking about the future self activates similar neural patterns as thinking about other people. If the future version of you feels like "someone else," sacrificing today for their benefit feels optional.

This has consequences. People save less, plan less, and support short-term rewards over long-term stability. But when that distance is reduced, they make markedly more future-oriented decisions. The lesson is not that humans are irrational, but that long-term thinking depends on identity. We protect what we feel connected to. Interestingly, those who come from cultures that adopt more of a community-based value system rather than those based on individualism do better with long-term systems thinking.

This psychological insight has a parallel in political philosophy. John Rawls famously argued that just systems are those we would design from behind a "veil of ignorance," not knowing what role we would occupy within them: Rich or poor, powerful or marginalized, majority or minority. The veil forces an expansion of perspective. It shifts the question from "Does this help me now?" to "Would I still think this is fair if I was on the other side?"

Both Hershfield and Rawls are pointing at the same underlying mechanism: when we expand our sense of self, our decision-making improves. The moral horizon widens. Short-term wins lose some of their appeal.

Modern democratic politics, however, is structurally biased toward the opposite impulse. Campaigns reward charisma and immediacy. Media ecosystems amplify outrage by creating urgency. Voters are encouraged to focus on singular figures and high-stakes cultural moments, especially presidential elections, while the less dramatic work of governance happens elsewhere.

The result is a kind of "home run politics." We look for sweeping gestures, decisive victories, and emotional catharsis. We evaluate leaders based on how they make us feel in the moment, which is why elections are so deeply shaped by the current state of the economy, cultural conflicts, and the latest crisis in our feeds. Meanwhile, the slow, accumulative work that actually shapes daily life such as local governance, institutional norms, regulatory capacity, and midterm elections receives comparatively little attention.

But democracies, like baseball teams and investing, do not win on highlights alone. They win through institutional health, rule stability, and sustained participation. Zoning boards and school councils are not exciting, but they determine housing, education, and opportunity. Norms around election integrity or judicial independence do not trend on social media, but once weakened, they are extraordinarily difficult to rebuild. Getting the process right is like getting on base.

Short-term political thinking tends to benefit those already insulated from its consequences because they are the very people with resources to exit failing systems. Elites can move capital, relocate, or wait out instability from a position of comfort. In contrast, broad, long-term investments in education, infrastructure, and democratic legitimacy benefit everyone,  especially those without those same buffers. Yet those investments are often the hardest to defend politically because they lack a single, visible payoff.

This creates a paradox. Systems that prioritize spectacle and speed often claim to represent "the people," yet they frequently entrench inequality and fragility. Systems that emphasize patience and process feel unsatisfying in the moment, but they are what allow societies to function across generations.

Citizenship in a democracy, then, is less about consuming political drama and more about stewardship. It requires thinking like someone responsible for a system rather than a fan rooting cheering for their own team.

One useful habit is to apply this thought experiment to political preferences. Before supporting a policy or institutional change, ask: Would this still make sense if I couldn't undo it? And just as importantly: Would I still agree to these kinds of rules if the other side wins? These questions interrupt tribal reflexes. They force us to imagine ourselves on the receiving end of the power we are endorsing.

Another habit is to vote like a systems thinker. This means widening the time horizon beyond the next news cycle and the scope beyond the highest office. It means paying attention to local elections, understanding how institutions actually work, and valuing competence and continuity over performative conflict. It means recognizing that many of the most important political outcomes are determined when no one is watching.

Like a team that only practices hitting home runs, a democracy focused solely on dramatic moments will struggle when the fundamentals break down. Democracy is not a single game. It is a long season. And like any long season, it is usually won not by dramatic swings, but by steady accumulation.

The deeper irony is that prioritizing other people like future citizens, political opponents, and people we may never meet is not self-sacrifice in the long run. It is enlightened self-interest. When we design systems that remain fair even when power shifts, we protect our future selves as well. When we resist the temptation of short-term victories that weaken institutional norms, we increase the odds that the system will still work when we need it. Think of it this way: the rules you create when you hold power are the same rules that will govern you when you don't.

We keep voting for home runs because they look like winning. But if we care about democracy lasting—if we care about the season rather than the highlight—we might be better off learning to appreciate the quiet power of getting on base.